Resigned to a Fate Between a Rock and a Hard Place
by YellowWomanontheBrink
Summary: 30 Crossovers #3- Merlin/Harry Potter- Merlin meets Tom Riddle, for the first time.
**Wrote this baby back in 2012. Part of my 30 crossovers challenge, Merlin and Harry Potter. Because I'd like to see a Merlin/HP fic not centered around sleeping for a thousand years then going to school. ^_^ Pst! If you like good Merlin xovers check out anything by Morena Evensong. Reading her fic was partof the reason I never posted it. That shit was just too good.**

 **Resigned to a Fate Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

 **A Merlin and Harry Potter Crossover**

 **by YellowWomanontheBrink**

* * *

Contemporary magic was rarely so deep that it touched him, so to say Merlin was surprised would be an understatement.

The Old Religion had lost its much of its following after Uther's Purge, after the True Purge of magic in the lives of man, and the emergence of the underground 'wizarding' societies, Merlin had almost never felt a connection with anyone. As a sorceror in those days of Camelot, he was aware of how intertwined with the Earth his very spirit was, but not of other sorcerers. It was only once they were gone was he aware of the gaping chasm that yawned in his spirit. His power was vast, but it was the power of life, and without other living being to share it with, it was incredibly lonely. He had not taken a student in years, especially not since the Ministry seized power in Albion, so when his eyes flared gold, they were alone in their brilliance.

But solitary as he was, he was still a trained High Priest, and regardless of his status as Emrys, it was his responsibility to ensure that the equilibrium between life and death fundamental to the Old Religion remained. Foolish boys sticking their fingers into the metaphorical pie were meant to be trained and taught. Before the Ministry came to power, years before Camelot's fall, Merlin had resurrected the tradition of taking them to the Isle of the Blessed, where they would touch the heart of magic and learn to respect their power before apprenticing them to a trained sorcerer. For the thirty years he'd served the Pendragon line he had done so personally. Afterward, he greeted them at the Isle, if they found their way there on their own. Now that kind of magic had become so…exclusive, the risk of someone casting sacrificial spells was not as dire an issue as it used to be in the time of the High Court of Albion. Even if he waited hopefully at the shores, he could guarantee he'd wait for years alone.

High in the mountains of Scotland, he headed, to an unassuming little village in the rolling green valleys. The house looked shabby and unimpressive, but his aura, so sensitive to the land, could tell that something was very, very wrong.

Perhaps it truly was nothing. Much of his troubles in his youth had been the result of prematurely trusting his instincts. But then, another good chunk of his troubles came from ignoring his senses as well. He hesitated on the path, but strode up it in a timely manner. His hesitation might be his downfall, but so could hurrying. All things in time, he decided.

When he reached the front door, he considered the handsome heavy, cherry wood. It was a well-carved piece of beauty, and its hinges were broken. Yes, something was definitely wrong here.

His silent debate was short; in the end he decided to knock on the door instead of sneaking in stealthily. Stealth had not been all that effective with the Peverells, all those years ago. Sometimes the only way to deal with arrogant sods was to hit them straight up in the head with the truth and confrontation.

And I was spot on, he thought, when a minion of all people opened the door, wand aloft in a position obviously thought was threatening.

Merlin smiled the most disarming smile that he could muster, all cheeks and eyes and foolishness."Hello."

The wizard blinked, then, a tad late in reacting, stepped outside and flung his wand out in a dueling position. He was obviously not professionally trained, chest bared to his opponent and stance far too planted for the versatility needed to battle with a wand.

Merlin had fought wizards before. He had learned the hard way that one experienced in dueling was not one to trifle with lightly. But this was no Antioch Peverell.

Merlin's eyes flashed, and with a gentle flick of his magic the man was left unconscious. He stepped over the body and headed into the house, where immediately he was hit by the stench of a perverted death ritual. He hadn't felt something this awful since Morgana had last lived.

With more haste than before, he navigated the small house to the very back of the room.

With his eyes closed, standing tall and straight was a handsome man, mouth moving rapidly as he chanted with concentration over the body of the dead woman lying at his feet. Her eyes were open, and her face was young. Once, it might have been vibrant, with her strong, round face and enormous gray eyes, but now her face was ashen with the complexion of old wax.

Wrapped around the chanting man's fingers was a handsome, leather bound diary. The stench of death was heavy around the young man's soul, and he was young, younger even than Merlin appeared.

Before Merlin could say anything, before he could thrust out a hand and stop whatever atrocity was being committed before his own eyes, a rush of power flooded the room and the disturbance that had pervaded his very being was relieved.

The price had been paid, and a man's soul was in shreds.

Merlin could no longer officially act in the name of magic. He could defy a proper spell as well as he could defy death. Death touched everyone, and though Emrys was spared from its embrace, the living embodiment of magic could do nothing to defy that all-consuming power. So it was with magic as well- if magic was satisfied, than it would not take the interference of even its chosen representative in the living world lightly.

He had come to understand Nimueh's powerlessness to stop her best friend's death very well in the past centuries.

"What have you done?" he breathed, unable to recognize the perversion of whatever spell had been cast. The handsome young man startled, and stepped back, just one, instinctive step out of fear, before raising his wand and plastering a cool, rather frightening expression on his face. However frightening the wizard's eyes were, Merlin's hard countenance was a thousand times more intense.

"Who are you?" the wizard asked, instead of replying.

Merlin's eyes flickered gold, and the wizard's name came to him; magic was still magic, no matter how shallow the connection, and Merlin had been entwined in it for far too long to not know who touched him. "What have you done, Riddle? The 'Old Religion' cried out before you paid its price, but you still stand before me. W _hat have you done?"_

Riddle's stance was strong, light, and versatile, and though he flinched at the rage in the sorcerer's voice he still looked smug and self satisfied, if a little breathless. If a sorcerer had come…he knew more than Dumbledore or that fool Slughorn. The wisdom in his eyes betrayed his true age. "What's it to you, sorcerer? You should be pleased to find someone who still practices the dark arts, _your_ arts, and this is the darkest-"

"This is not sorcery, Riddle," he spat impassively, tone laced with scorn as he looked down the tip of the wand. "This is a perversion. Heresy! If you truly knew sorcery, then you would know who I am and why I've come, you who sacrifices a soul not your own, a soul unwilling and unchosen! Selfish fool!"

When he looked at Riddle, at his handsome face and emotive, dark eyes, more attractive yet more deceptive than Merlin's ever would be, his mind's eye saw only Morgana. His beauty carried the same sort of deception as hers, but his eyes lacked the hatred that wretched witch's eyes had burned with. Instead, they were cold with certainty, with ambition. They lacked any sort of emotion, or passion. Those dark eyes were the eyes of a babe that should have been drowned in its very cradle.

Merlin was not blind to dark magic, not anymore. After being caught off-guard one too many times by Morgana's plots, after failing time and time again and making too many mistakes simply because of his ignorance, one of decrees as High Sorcerer after Gwen became Queen was knowledge. He replenished the royal library of Camelot with general guidelines of magic, and repossessed the most dangerous grimoires from various sorcerers and priests for his own personal library.

His own library had barely survived when Camelot had burned down. He would not be surprised if some of the books had found its way into that school of the Ministry's. He made the mistake of tying the wards to the walls of Camelot. When Camelot fell…so did the wards, and when Merlin had returned from Bernicia to find his king's land ransacked and his home destroyed, most of the books were gone.

It was in this instance, beyond all of the times he had come across wizards doing sorcery without truly understanding what they were doing, he was thankful. Even the damned Peverells had not had eyes so cold, just a lack of respect for traditions and respect for man.

If this Riddle boy had been sorcerer, he would be a fairly powerful one. The only thing that kept him from committing such evils a la Morgana and Mordred was his ignorance. What magic he didn't know, he couldn't use. Merlin had never been so grateful for that.

Nine hundred years ago, Merlin had sworn never to take another position of power, serving no other man but his king and his king's chosen heirs. Very rarely since, he had acted with the authority of Emrys, but as there were no violations of sorcery here, only ethics, he could do nothing...

No, not nothing. Merlin's oath kept him from interfering, but he could make sure that whatever happened, it couldn't get any worse.

Riddle's dark eyes examined Merlin, running over him from head to toe, as if there was something about the ancient warlock that he could not put his finger on. Merlin almost snorted, and he probably would have, if the situation was not so grave. Merlin confounded most people that way.

"You…are not a sorcerer," he said, smooth brows crinkling in distaste. "Well, then. I suppose we have a problem here." He raised his wand, his body slipping into a far superior stance to that of his lackey. "I don't know how you killed Anderson there, but you're not leaving here today."

"If this was still my day, you would be executed for dark sorcery. Drawn, stretched, and then beheaded for such an evil act," Merlin said instead. "It's a shame that you're a wizard. An execution day is never a happy one, but there are some people who don't deserve to live, for the good of all."

Riddle did not say anything, but ambitious crooks were still ambitious crooks, even a thousand years after Arthur's era. His eyes twinkled with lust for power, for knowledge. Idly, Merlin wondered if he should regret tempting Riddle. He could not stop his lip from curling in distaste and sadness; Riddle hardly noticed the body on the ground. He had eyes only for Merlin, and he clutched the diary tight to his chest.

Merlin had not killed a person in cold blood since he killed Morgana with Excalibur, a blade he refused to wield since Arthur had died. He never yearned to murder, not in his name, not for honor, certainly not in the name of magic or the Old Religion. The only life he had the right to take was his own, and magic denied him even that. That a man as young as Riddle had done it so easily, and without hesitation made him infinitely sad.

"You're not a wizard either, are you?" Riddle sneered, as if he finally realized something.

"No," he replied simply, hands loosely hanging at his side.

"Emrys," Riddle hissed, eyes narrowing. "He who is immortal, magic itself they say." Tightening his grip on the notebook, he asked, voice so low even in the quiet of the room that Merlin nearly couldn't hear it. "You cannot stop me now."

"I know," Merlin said mournfully, glancing down at the. "The deed's done. The price is paid."

"And so I walk free," Riddle bared his teeth in a savage smile of satisfaction. "I live, and they...don't."

Merlin scowled, and his expression was so fierce that the smugness slid away from Riddle's face quickly. His fingers itched to avenge the poor woman with the wide, unseeing grey eyes, but his magic stretched tight, unyielding. His oath was not letting up anytime soon. Magic, that useless tool, saw no cause for complaint. It would not allow itself to be broken.

"So you walk free. Only this one time, you will walk free," and though he swore no oath, Merlin was certain this promise would be kept.

Tom Riddle relaxed his dueling stance, standing straight and glaring straight into Merlin's eyes before vanishing with a loud crack.

Merlin did not even startle, he was so accustomed to the vanishing habits of wizards. He walked over to where the woman, well-dressed and clearly wealthy, lay prone on the ground. If her eyes were not open and her chest was not still, she might have merely looked as if she were asleep. Not a scratch was on her beautiful body, and thankfully her skirt was still covering her legs. A single hand print marred her cheek, when Merlin turned her face over to investigate her body. The corpse was unnaturally cold, considering how long ago it had been killed.

A killing curse.

At least it was fast. He could remember reading some rituals of the Old Religion, where they would pay their debts back to the Earth and magic in blood and pain, slow and steady.

He closed her eyes gently, and crossed her arms over her bosom, rolling her onto her back so that her face was in the direction of the waxing sunlight. With her body laid properly, he inspected the rest of the expansive manor.

Each room was bare. Obviously, the couple—for it was clear a man lived here as well, Merlin had seen the gentry coats and top-hat on a rack in a sitting room—had no children.

In one of the spare offices, a daguerreotype of a handsome man that looked eerily similar to Riddle hung proudly on the wall. Beside him, a fine portrait of the dead woman downstairs. A cold rock dropped into the pit of Merlin's stomach, and silently he thanked the Mother Goddess that they had no children.

Because behind the heavy cherry wood desk, smeared with blood and cracked bones and complete with glassy open eyes was the man who was obviously the father of the escaped Riddle. The resemblance was uncanny, between the escaped murderer and grimacing corpse sprawled prone on the ground before him.

And Riddle's motivations became a little more clear. It seemed that this couple had a child- no child that they wanted, it seemed-and their rejection had spurred the young man on a reign of revenge.

Merlin walked out, numb but not surprised.

* * *

 **Liked it? Hated it? Please drop a review! You have no idea how encouraging it is to keep writing when you get one, even if it;s just something like cool story. I'd like some critique if you've got it though!**

 **YellowWomanontheBrink**

 **12:05 am**

 **May 3, 2016**


End file.
